


Nowhere To Go But Home

by yalublyutebya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's trusted second-in-command and a very dangerous man. Sherlock will hunt him down, whatever it takes, so he can never pose a threat to John again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere To Go But Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You'll Never Have Nowhere to Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/383274) by [thisprettywren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren). 



> Written for [Sherlock Remix Round 3](sherlock-remix.livejournal.com).
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely lady_t_220

Despite the awkward position, hunkered down the side of Sherlock's (old) bed, John is sleeping soundly, a comfortable weight against Sherlock's side. Sherlock's backside has also long since fallen asleep, but he feels content nonetheless. John has taken his return surprisingly well, all things considered, and even though he knows there's a long way to go, it's a better start than he could have hoped for.

He stretches his legs out in front of him in an attempt to regain some feeling, and in doing so dislodges John's hand from his thigh. He's tempted to draw it back, but isn't sure he should. Everything is so fragile, so delicate, between them; Sherlock doesn't know if John has room for him in his life anymore. 

He draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The room is starting to get lighter as dawn approaches, and the desire to be moving, to be doing _something_ , tugs at him already. Not long now, and they'll be able to leave their hiding-place and call in the reinforcements; Moran isn't going to be an easy catch, and they will need all the help they can get. It's not something Sherlock's really looking forward to, but to keep John safe he will sacrifice his ego and do the right thing - what he should have done a long time ago.

*

Sherlock wakes slowly, his head throbbing and thick with the fog of pain medication. A familiar face pops into view, concern writ large in every feature. He tries to say her name - _Molly_ \- but his throat is painfully dry and he struggles to form the words. He thinks he might have been intubated at some point.

"You're okay," she whispers, hovering close by, but not touching him. "Just rest. I've done it, just like you said."

It takes a moment for him to remember the plan - his plan, it _shouldn't have worked_ \- and if it did work, he can't stay here, he has to move, go somewhere safe and hidden and -

He tries to push himself up to sitting, but his chest protests, a flare of agony searing through him. 

"Don't move," Molly says, her attempt at firmness betrayed by the faint wobble in her voice. "You can't... You're hurt. You need to just stay still, alright?"

He lets out a long breath and sinks back into his pillow, his chest aching with every breath. He thinks Molly must give him another dose of whatever it is that's muddling his thoughts, because sleep pulls him under again before he can protest.

*

"How did this happen?" Sherlock snaps down the phone, taking a drag on his cigarette and blowing the smoke out in a satisfying cloud.

"Smoking really is a nasty habit, Sherlock," Mycroft intones with faint amusement that does nothing to improve Sherlock's mood.

"How did this _happen_?" Sherlock repeats, patience fast running out. "You're supposed to be watching for him, Mycroft, and now I find out he's been in London the whole time. Right under your fat-"

"I apologise," Mycroft interrupts smoothly. "It was an oversight and it has been... addressed."

Sherlock breathes out another plume of smoke and presses his hand over the new scar on his back. "Does John know he's being watched?"

"I very much doubt that," Mycroft remarks. "Moran is very good, as you well know."

Good enough to slip past Mycroft's network, and that's a chilling thought.

"I need to get back to London immediately."

"Yes, I thought as much. There's a plane waiting for you at the airport."

"Good."

Sherlock hangs up without another word. The chase is on again, and this time Moran will not get away.

*

Sherlock turns, too slowly, and the knife plunges into his back, just below his ribs. He cries out, and spins, dragging his attacker to the floor. The knife catches for a moment, before sliding free, pulling at the edges of the wound as Sherlock breathes through the pain and pins his assailant to the floor, one hand pressed to his throat.

"Where is he?"

The man shakes his head, scrabbling for the knife that has rolled out of his reach. Sherlock kneels on his arm to stop him, and the man grimaces.

"Where's Moran?"

Sherlock tightens his fingers around the man's throat, causing him to gasp at the pressure. 

"I... I don't know."

"Liar," he snarls, pressing his knee into the vulnerable crook of the man's elbow hard enough to force a choked cry from his opponent's lips. Pressing his advantage, Sherlock reaches for the knife and brings it to the man's face, just touching the blade to his cheek for good measure.

"One last time. Where. Is. He?"

The man lets out a shudder, his head angled away from the knife as much as he can manage. 

"Okay, okay," he wheezes. "He's in London."

Sherlock stills for a moment, before pulling his arm back and punching the man hard enough to knock him unconscious. He isn't important enough to warrant any further consideration on Sherlock's part, and Sherlock rises to his feet and brushes himself down. He presses a hand to his back, his fingers instantly sticky with blood. He needs medical treatment, but it can wait. The game is reaching its climax.

*

Three snipers. He forgets the names of the first two as soon as he has disposed of them, but the third is an entirely different breed. Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's trusted second-in-command and a very dangerous man. Sherlock will hunt him down, whatever it takes, so he can never pose a threat to John again.

*

This isn't right, he wasn't expecting this. There's a woman - a girl, really - knocking on the door of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock shrinks back into the doorway as the door opens and Mrs. Hudson appears. She ushers the girl in with familiar warmth that, for a moment, makes Sherlock ache with longing for _home_.

He glances across the road, to the empty house where he knows Moran is waiting. He could confront him now, take advantage of the element of surprise, but no, he doesn't know what Moran might do if spooked. 

His eyes flicker across to 221b again, gaze tracking up to the first floor windows. He can't see anything from here, but he knows John is home. He's so close, he could just walk up to the door - but no, it's too much of a risk, with the unknown girl inside.

The door opens once more and Mrs. Hudson slips out, pulling it shut behind her. She crosses over to the opposite pavement and suddenly she's heading right in Sherlock's direction. He panics for a split second, and then pulls a hat from his pocket and slips it over his head, quickly turning his back to the street and hammering on the door. Thank God the occupants are out.

"Come on, love," he shouts, pressing his face close to the door, slurring his words just a little. "Let me in."

Footsteps approaching from the left, a momentary pause as Mrs. Hudson spots him, and then her steps hurry on past him.

"Open up," he shouts again. "Come on. Look, I'm sorry, alright? Come on, love."

He slumps against the door, and as soon as he thinks the coast is clear, he turns back around. The street is empty once more. He looks up to the windows of the flat, and jerks forward unthinkingly, his heart in his throat, when the nearest one shatters into a thousand pieces.

*

"He's going to go after John."

"Of course."

Sherlock doesn't know why Moran hasn't tried before now, if he's been in London as long as they suspect. John would be an easy target, unaware of the dangers that still lurk around every corner. And John is the most powerful chess piece at Moran's disposal, because sentiment has made Sherlock weak.

He needs to think of a plan, there has to be a way to turn the trap around. Moran has expertly lured him back to London with an implicit threat to John. Sherlock needs to find a way to turn it to his advantage, but he just _can't think_. Home is so close, a distracting, alluring prospect. Not to mention John, who he has missed more than he thought he would. Sentiment, indeed.

It had all seemed so straightforward when he stepped off the roof of St. Bart's.

*

"Thank you for your help."

"It was nothing," Molly says quietly, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"It was far from nothing, and I won't forget it," Sherlock says solemnly, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. 

"When will you be back?" she asks.

"I don't know."

*

The fire escape creaks underfoot and Sherlock stills, before shifting his weight and carrying on up the steps. He needs to know that John is alright. Moran will be long gone by now, but he can't bring himself to care. 

He reaches the window and pauses, listening for any sound inside, before shoving the window open. He throws one leg over the sill, followed quickly by the other, and pulls himself through. 

As soon as he settles on the floor, he is tackled sideways, a firm grip around his waist sending him into the wardrobe. His breath rushes out as pain blossoms around his ribs and the still healing scar at his back. He tries to grab at John's hands, but he's too slow, and John fists a hand in his hair, cracking his head against the wall once, twice. Everything goes a little fuzzy for a moment and his hands fall slack as he struggles to right himself. He manages, somehow, to roll his shoulder, forcing John away - and then everything goes very still, very quiet.

He's gasping for breath even as he manages to look up into John's shocked eyes. He thinks he says John's name, but the world shifts out of focus and he has to grab the wall for support. The back of his head is throbbing and he raises a hand to it, his fingers coming away bloody.

When he meets John's gaze again, John is watching him with a look of utter incomprehension. There's no time to explain, though, because there are sirens outside and he can't be seen, not yet. The most important thing is that John is alright. Sherlock glances out into the sitting room, where the still form of the dark-haired girl lies, and then throws one last look at John.

The police descend like an avalanche, but Sherlock is gone before the first man sets foot in the flat, climbing down the fire escape as quickly as his spinning head will allow and stumbling his way through the alleyway into the next street, before he throws his arm in the air to hail a passing taxi. He climbs into the car and slumps into the backseat, his hand pressed to his aching skull as he gives the address for Mycroft's house.

*

He bites his tongue so hard it bleeds as the cigarette presses into the thin skin of his shoulder. Short breaths in and out through his nose. He won't give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. Instead, he plans his escape, and particularly bloody ways of getting past all of his captors.

*

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock inspects the contents of the bag Mycroft has provided and gives a sharp nod. "Yes."

"It won't be easy to come back after this." There's something like softness in Mycroft's voice, but Sherlock doesn't want to hear it now. He has a job to do.

He fastens the bag and pulls on a short jacket, flipping the hood up over his head. His eyes meet Mycroft's, just for a moment, and then he turns and heads for the door.

"You know how to contact me if you need anything," Mycroft reminds him unnecessarily.

"Yes." He's hoping to avoid it as much as possible, but he can't deny that Mycroft has a vast array of resources across the world that may come in handy. He opens the door to the study and pauses as Mycroft calls his name, although he doesn't look back.

"Be careful," Mycroft says after a long pause.

He squares his shoulders and gives a jerky nod, before stepping out and pulling the door shut behind him. He's on the Continent only a few hours later, ready to start his hunt.

*

Getting a police uniform is disgustingly easy, as is slipping into 221b with one of the teams. He watches from the living room as John sits on the bed and Lestrade stands nearby, watching with poorly-concealed worry. Sherlock doesn't risk staying any longer and slips the spare key on the coffee table into his pocket as he leaves. He will have to wait until John is alone.

*

Moran is a shadow. For all that Sherlock hears his name and sees his signature everywhere, he can find no trace of the man himself. He is as hard to pin down as his former employer. 

There are rumours of him in Mexico, in Japan, in Spain. Echoes and whispers, but it all turns up a blank. Finding Moran becomes Sherlock's sole preoccupation. The rest of Moriarty's network is insignificant; flies caught in the web, struggling to stay alive as it disintegrates from the centre outwards. He destroys them as he goes, but Moran is his main target now.

The first time he hears that Moran is in England, he dismisses it. It came from an unreliable source anyway. He informs his brother, just in case, and forgets all about it as a lead takes him to India.

He hears it again and again, though, and when he finally chases down Moran's contact in Mumbai, it's more a case of confirming what he already knows, and fears: Moran has been in London all along.

*

Sherlock really wishes he hadn't been right about John probably needing to get out of the flat and clear his head: it is too dangerous for either of them to be out in plain sight like this. He needs to get John back to the relative safety of Baker Street, but John is determined to hash it out, here and now. 

John shoves him against the wall angrily and Sherlock doesn't fight it, stamping down on the instinct to defend himself (it's kept him alive for three years), and flattening himself against the cool brick. John eventually steps back, but Sherlock keeps himself pressed to the wall, as inoffensive a target as possible. 

Now he just needs to get John to listen to him, so they can return to the flat. He isn't above pleading at this point.

"Please," Sherlock says. "I can't - you have to trust me."

John gives a choked, bitter laugh. "Yeah. I do, don't I."

He pushes past and Sherlock turns to follow, eyes scanning every passing car, every alleyway, every window as they make their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock glances across the street - to the house opposite - as John opens the door, and then hurries him inside and upstairs.

Once they are inside, John finally breaks and, try as he might, Sherlock cannot find the right words. He stutters over an explanation and looks on helplessly as John has some sort of mild panic attack. He forces John to sit, but John fights back when Sherlock tries to put his head between his knees. Sherlock retreats to a safe distance and drops to a crouch, watching John closely as he pulls himself back together.

When John finally raises his head, Sherlock forces himself to talk, to try to explain why he did what he did. And the more he explains, the less justified it feels, especially in the wake of John's anger and confusion.

*

"How is he doing?" Sherlock asks in a moment of weakness, several months in.

"Coping," Mycroft answers.

Sherlock wants to ask more, but doesn't dare.

*

He pulls his old dressing gown around him. John kept it, and has been wearing it, leaving behind the scents of tea and sweat. It smells and feels like home. Sentiment again.

He has only a moment to enjoy it, though, before reality encroaches once more, before John - with his usual blunt insight (how Sherlock has missed it) - points out the obvious.

“But if Margaret wasn’t his intended target, and the Yard didn’t catch him, then— is he going to try again?”

A moment of sheer utter panic - he sees it reflected in John's face too - and then they scrabble for the cover of the bedroom.

This wasn't part of the plan. They're trapped like animals, and Sherlock detests himself for the oversight. He's underestimated Moran again. Moran is efficient and straightforward - none of Moriarty's smoke and mirrors, just a simple bullet through the head. Stupid, to have given him this opportunity, but at least he won't be able to see it through to fruition, Sherlock will make sure of that.

*

"It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

*

As daylight creeps into the room, washing over John's sleeping form, Sherlock finally dares to move, pressing a hand to John's arm.

"John?"

John starts awake and blinks up at Sherlock in confusion, before straightening and rubbing his neck. Sleep falls away in the space of a few moments and when John looks at him again, there is determination in his eyes.

"Is it time?"

"Yes."

"Well, let's go then. We've got a bad guy to catch."

John gets to his feet slowly, then holds out his hand. Sherlock lets himself be pulled to his feet, and the touch lingers for a moment longer, hands wrapped tightly around each other. John's fingers brush over his wrist - over his pulse - just for a second, and then disappear. Their gazes meet and hold, and then Sherlock gives a nod.

"Let's go."


End file.
